


air catcher

by Theboys



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Curtain Fic, Fluff and Angst, Grumpy Old Men, M/M, Old Age, old folks home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 11:56:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6283537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's rocking chair always stands to the left of Dean's and no-one will tell Dean that Sammy's not coming out to sit with him anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	air catcher

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY. SO I was gonna write more on this and then I started crying mid-way through and I was like, fuck no. Unless someone wants an 8k fic of this sadness; (complete with shared heaven) I cannot write anymore than this. Spoilers that I haven't warned for in end notes (although it's probably relatively clear from the summary).
> 
> It was taken from [this](http://brosamigos.tumblr.com/post/141255982930/improudsammy-i-cant-stop-thinking-about-80) popular tumblr post (that I've been successfully ignoring for years because; shit, who needs more heartbreak? That's a trick question; fucking me).

It’s hot out.

Dean would rather be inside, watching the first installment of The Thin Man; Myrna Loy is still pristine, even after all these years.

Sammy’s always making him wait, insists Dean comes out first so he can pick the sun-shade spots. Dean’s knees are better than Sam’s; Sammy ran, all the way up until five years ago when the arthritis really started to kick in.

Dean’s hips are shot to hell, though. Dean likes to think it’s because he spent too much time grinding but Sam says that’s stupid and Dean’s just worn out. Sam’s fucking worn out; Dean thinks derisively.

He wonders about it, the slow press of his brother’s body. He can’t get up as readily as he used to, but he squirms at the warmth in his gut.

It’s been like this a few years now; Sam got too old to help Dean with Bunker repairs and Dean’s a magnanimous guy. He’d proposed moving into an old folks home.

Sammy’s name for it, though. Dean likes to think of it as a year-long hotel with pay-per-view porn, but Sam can still cuff him upside the head, and it still hurts.

Dean tries it back and it falls flat; his shoulder aches if he tries to reach that high. How that man looks like fucking rebel-Santa, white curled around his ears and over the soft dip of his forehead is astounding.

Dean’s hair has always been close-cropped and so the slight loss of it has never bothered him any. Marie likes to wonder about his scars, “how’d you get ‘em so close to your ears, Deany?” Sam laughs fierce, settles spider-fingers on his chest and blinks slow.

“Yeah Deany,” Sam starts, “tell us, we’re waiting.”

Dean shoves his middle finger up Sam’s ass first, on those nights.

Sam’s enamored with the world as is now, presses close to Dean in the middle of the dark, tucked low so he can hear Dean’s heartbeat.

Dean’s not convinced Sammy can hear it through all that fucking hair, but, to each his own.

“Would you put a modifier on the Impala,” Sam asks; his favorite question when he’s looking to be ornery. Dean’s distracted, Grace Kelly’s wheeling Jimmy Stewart around to play peeping-Tom better, and Dean can never fucking remember how the bastard managed to break _both_ his legs.

“What?” Dean says, and he’s angling for sex tonight so he figures he better play along.

Sam’s fingers skip over the gap in his waistband and Dean’s hips twitch reflexively. He wants to hump up into that hand but his lower back is _killing_ him, and if Sammy notices he’s in any pain he’s gonna drag Dean to see Dr. Carver tomorrow and Dean might rather die.

“Modifier,” Sam repeats, and Dean snorts. “You sayin’ a--a fucking computer’s gonna drive my baby better’n me?” Dean splutters, and Sam’s already shaking with mirth, that asshole.

“It’s supposed to be safer, Dean,” Sam counters, but Dean’s already shaking his head. He thinks they’re at the scene where the killer murders the dog, and Sam _knows_ he ain’t got the stomach for that.

“It’s all automated now,” Sam presses, and Dean’s grumbling. Dean’s eyes are shot, no way around it, and Sam’s knees won’t let him drive to the store, much less any distance that matters.

Cars drive themselves these days, with modifiers for older models, but when Dean thinks of desecrating his Baby like that; he’s gonna punch Sam.

“Alright, alright,” Sam whispers, and Dean realizes he’s tensed, one hand curled around Sammy’s bicep.

“Stop saying stupid shit, then,” Dean mutters, but he drags his little brother close, splays one hand on the still-firm swell of Sam’s ass.

That’s never changed. Feels just like it always has. He’s dipping his fingers down into the crease when he hears a small sniffle and he knows Sammy’s fallen asleep.

Dean scrubs one hand over his eye and pulls Sam so tight he feels his ribs give a sympathetic crack.

Which brings Dean back to this moment; sticky-hot in Texas, sleek line of cars whizzing past on the street, not an accident in sight.

He thinks about telling Sam yes.

Sammy keeps him waiting now, he’s not as punctual as he used to be in his youth. Dean thinks that’s because he spends a lot of his free time researching cases for younger folks; thank God he can still type.

Dean forces his chair to rock; it’s too stagnant in this kind of no-breeze.

When a shadow falls over the seat next to him he about sighs in relief. When he looks up, it’s a much shorter distance than he’d anticipated. It’s the new guy, Dominic-something, and Dean grins.

Dom’s not been here long enough to know about Sam and Dean, and Dean’s fucking gregarious, alright?

“Sorry man,” Dean says, motioning to the chair on the left, “that one's for my kid brother, Sammy.” Dom blinks heavy and looks around. “Alright, okay,” Dom says and he ambles away; his walker smacks against every chair on the way past.

Marie’s glancing over at Dean; she hates sitting directly in the sun but Dean chooses the same two seats without fail, every morning. Dean’s has a sliver of shade but Sam’s chair is kissing the sun, closer to God.

“Every day,” Marie says, to no one in particular; nobody could hear her speaking this low besides, “He saves a seat for Sam.” Marie remembers Sam, tall and wide, my God she’d have loved to take a ride on whatever he was packing.

Her hip, you know.

“Anybody gonna tell him?” Marie says, and this truth makes her antsy, it makes her hot-dry and she wants to say but no one allows it. No one thinks it’ll do any good. Dean’s gonna do what he wants, and he probably wouldn’t remember, regardless.

“Guess not,” Marie says; it’s too hot to crochet but she’s been doing it for five summers anyway.

Sam’s been dead the past two years and Dean’s gonna burn to a crisp in the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> Major Character Death (y'all I killed Sammy fuck this).


End file.
